Poore’s insight seems to have been exceptional, not the norm, among his contemporaries. Albert Camus’ L’Étranger was once taught in schools across this country as an example of post-war existential and absurdist literature, but I don’t remember any examples of it being discussed in the context of colonial history. A ommission that continued over time and which seems ridiculous in hindsight. True, things were different in 1946 – the entire world would be rebuilding after the Blitz, the Holocaust, the Dresden bombings, the Vichy occupation, Pearl Harbor, the bombing of Berlin – every country had a tragedy and every tragedy seems to have been given a name that stuck. Existentialism, absurdism and nihilism were philosophies that fit then and (I suppose) continued to fit as time went on. And let’s face it – no one was in the mood to discuss dismantling a racist colonial system. Particularly not those who benefited from it. Algerian Independence wouldn’t be won – hard won – from the French until 1962, twenty years later.

Pied-noirs – black shoes – was the nickname given to the white, French colonists who benefited from the colonial system. And Meursault is the more extreme version of this privileged class. Camus’ place in and stance on Algier’s society was as complicated as his protagonist’s motivations were simple. As a journalist for an anti-colonial newspaper prior to WWII and during the Algerian War of Independence he would express sympathy, even some solidarity, for those who fought on the side of Algerian independence.“The truth is that we are living every day alongside people whose condition is that of the European peasantry of three centuries ago, and yet we, and we alone, are unmoved by their desperate plight.” But he didn’t support full, Algerian self-rule. Instead he thought it best for Algiers remain part of France. (The obvious question is “best for whom”?) It was a stance which did not make him popular in Algiers and to this day he remains un-celebrated (and largely unclaimed) by the country where he was born. Camus was very much a man of his time, as was his book.

And so it is unsurprisingly an Algerian writer, Kamel Daoud, who has set out to correct the omissions in Camus’ narrative. He gives the murdered Arab a name: Musa. A mother. And a brother, Harun, who tells their (the “Arab”) side of the story. In a way Daoud has created a parallel, Through the Looking Glass version of L’Étranger. He opens with the words “Mama’s still alive today” and ends with “I too would wish them to be there in force, my spectators, and their hatred be savage”. What happens in between is a tale told to a stranger in a bar decades after the events it describes took place. Told by a narrator who is in every way Meursault’s opposite. Harun, as already stated, is Musa’s brother and so one of the Arabs Meursault & his friend Raymond despised. He contextualizes the familiar story within the history of Algiers – his and his brother’s world – rather than the first half of the 20th century as experienced by Europe. Harun ultimately disputes every fact in the original account, disperses our illusions, and goes on to explain the repercussions of that afternoon on the beach. Some we might never have considered. (One new detail that is introduced: because Musa is never named in the original story, he can never be identified as a martyr and so his mother can not claim a martyr’s pension).

Meursault and Camus blend into a single man – the author/actor of this retold story – who is cleared of a murder he does not deny having committed and then goes on to write a book that enthralls the world. In this way Daoud holds both men, and by extension the readers who were complicit in the dehumanization of the victim, accountable.

Arab. I never felt Arab, you know. Arab-ness is like Negro-ness, which only exists in the white man’s eyes. In our neighborhood, in our world, we were Muslims, we had given names, faces, and habits. Period. The others were “the strangers,” the roumis God brought here to put us to the test, but whose days were numbered anyway: one day or another, they would leave, there was no doubt about that. And so nobody responded to them, people clammed up in their presence, leaned on the wall, and waited. Your writer-murderer was wrong, my brother an his friend had no intention whatsoever of killing them, him and his pimp friend. THey were just waiting for them to leave, all of them, your hero, the pimp, and the thousands and thousands of others. We all knew it, we knew it from early childhood, we didn’t even need to talk about it: we knew one day they’d eventually leave. When we happened to pass through a European neighborhood, we used to amuse ourselves by pointing at the houses and sharing them out like spoils of spoils of a war. One of us would say, “This one’s mine, I touched it first!” and set off a frenzy of claims and counter-claims. We were five years old when we started doing that, can you imagine? As if our intuition was telling us what would happen when Independence came, but leaving out the weapons.

To his credit Douod doesn’t try to match the eloquence of Camus’ writing, cleverly dismissing its perceived worth in the very first page – “The murderer has become famous, and his story’s too well written for me to get any ideas about imitating him.” Instead he focuses on what happened to that other, forgotten, mother and our narrator, Harun. How they dealt with their grief and survived the decades of war. Harun is presented to us as a drunk – angry, bitter, irascible. His voice is coarse, his manner Falstaffian*. He is a tragic figure, too, in his own way. Harun may have lived while his brother did not, but circumstances forced him to live in the shadow of another man’s version of Musa’s death. Though he goes on to paint a picture of what came after post-colonialism and rages against a country where religious has replaced the secular in day-to-day life – for him and his family all these events pivot around the millisecond, 2 o’clock in the afternoon, when his brother was shot. “And so when Musa went away into the mountains to talk to God about eternity, Mama and I left the city and went back to the village.”

I wonder what Camus would have made of it.

If you haven’t read The Stranger there’s really not much point reading The Meursault Investigation. It is not a stand-alone book. You will have to read both books, back-to-back. Which is not a suggestion but, rather, a directive. (Just in case anyone was confused). Daoud’s novel is increasingly relevant – as literature, as social commentary and as an aid in understanding current events. If that’s not compelling enough consider this: The Meursault Investigation corrects the record 70-years after and proves that every life – even a fictional one – is significant. That there always exists an untold story. And every story gains power in the telling.

*Perils of a reader/reviewer: I just want to admit that at this point I’m not sure if that Falstaff comparison is entirely my own. If I somehow absorbed it from another review (or even the book itself?) it was unintentional & I’ve forgotten where I came across it.

I started this series – 100 Pages – for the books I can’t finish, but which I still think might have merit. Chef, shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book, falls into that category. I received my copy through LibraryThing’s Early Reviewer program.

So let’s rip off this band-aid quickly.

Kirpal “Kip” Singh, the novel’s narrator, is dying of a brain tumor. Kip has been summoned back by his old commander, General Kumar, the Governor of Kashmir. The General has requested that Kip cook the wedding feast for his daughter’s marriage to a Pakistani Muslim. These two men have something in their past, something Kip is intent on resolving before he dies. On the rail journey to Kashmir, he remembers his apprenticeship under the General’s first chef decades before. He recalls the circumstances which he led him into the army. An innocent young man, most of Kip’s flashbacks revolve around his attempts to rid himself of his virginity. So, not surprisingly, from the book’s French flaps we learn that the rift between Kip and the General occurred because of a woman – a lovely Pakistani woman who washes up on the river bank and is accused of being a terrorist.

But I never actually reached that point in the narrative. 100 pages, over a third of the way into the novel, Jaspreet Singh is still laying the foundation of his story. The pacing is incredibly slow; the writing is thick and torpid. The reader spends all his time trapped within Kip’s head and entangled in Kip’s memories. Which is probably the main reason why I was unable to lose myself in Chef. Kip by turns bothered and bored me. He sees every woman he meets as a possible sexual partner. His courting technique consists of approaching the current object of his affection (who, more often than not he is barely acquainted with) and staring at them creepily until they gently rebuff him. He get’s lots of sexual advice, along with culinary training, from the chef who he serves under – equally creepy. And while Singh may have felt this to be necessary in order to develop the story – it was more than I was interested in reading.

Ultimately, despite the amount of time spent following Kip’s thoughts, he never became a fully developed protagonist for me. Every scene is rife with emotional undercurrents that I was unable to decipher. The prose felt too thick. Eventually, I just stopped caring.

For me – finishingthe first 100 pages of Chef was a struggle. But not everyone shares my opinion. KevinfromCanada felt differently. As did Page247. Their reviews are well written and worth reading. They also are, on the whole, positive.

So if anyone is interested in a gently used copy of Chef by Jaspreet Singh – comment below and send me an email at BookSexyblog@gmail.com. OR, if you’ve read the novel and loved it – let me know why. Maybe I gave up too soon… maybe it just wasn’t my cup of tea.